


Calamity

by varooooom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has dealt with many deaths during his time serving Arthur, but the death of his mother is one too many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calamity

**Author's Note:**

> Oodles and oodles of angst for you here. Not sure if it has a happy ending, that's up to you to decide.

When news reaches Camelot of Hunith's passing, Merlin reacts about precisely as one would expect of him. The messenger, a young boy by the name of Ethan that his mother used to sneak extra food to, all but kisses the floor with the depth of his bow before he flees the Great Hall and subsequently, the blanched look on Merlin's face. He doesn't cry or scream just yet - there's plenty of time for that later - but furrows his brow in confusion, as though uncertain of what it all meant. How it could possibly be true. Where exactly the ground beneath his feet went.

He turns to Arthur, who looks pale and a half decade older (and what does it say about his own appearance when the King starts at the sight of him?), and speaks through a quickly constricting throat. "Will you require anything else of me today, Sire?"

"Merlin -" Arthur tries, but Merlin isn't having any of that and continues as though he hadn't said anything at all.

"If not, I think I should like to retire early."

"Merlin, wait -"

But he doesn't wait for permission before walking from the room and tearing off down the halls, pointedly ignoring Arthur's calls following behind him.

* * *

Arthur only respects Merlin's unspoken request for space for what feels like the time it takes to walk the distance to the Court Physician's chambers. He can hear the King's pleasantries floating up the stairs to his little bedroom as though to taunt him and mock him in his grief. Merlin wants nothing to do with the Court right now, or with the kingdom at all. If he'd never left Ealdor, if he'd only _been there_ for her, then perhaps -

The sound of footsteps approaching and stopping just outside his door stills his breath with the idle hope that maybe Arthur will think better of it and let him alone, but he knows better and curls tighter around his threadbare sheets when the door clicks open.

"Merlin," Arthur says too gently, too concerned and sincere, and it grates on Merlin's ears.

"Go away," he spits, refusing to look at the pity Arthur is undoubtedly giving him. Merlin wants none of his false sympathy.

"That's no way to speak to your King," and Merlin snorts in amusement and derision. He isn't sure _why_ he's mad at Arthur, only that he _is_ , very much so. Too many years under his thumb, too many lives lost, too many heartbreaks and what's one more to the list?

Too fucking much, is what it is.

Arthur exhales softly, "Listen, I'll leave you be in a moment. I just wanted to let you know you can take as much time as you need."

"How terribly kind of you, Sire," Merlin says dryly, "Do me one more favour and please _go away_."

Silence a moment, and Merlin doesn't need to look to see the conflict warring on Arthur's face. He'll frown at Merlin's flippancy; his brows will furrow in confusion; his lips will twitch with the urge to mouth off. Merlin knows what he thinks he knows - only Arthur does none of these things, as he's too busy swallowing down something thick in his throat.

"Feel free to take one of the horses, if you'd like. To Ealdor."

"To do what? Look for where they burned my mother's body?" Even he flinches at the bitter sound of a hollow laugh, vaguely wondering who stole his voice and how they managed to make it sound so _hateful._ It feels like his blood is boiling, like the setting Sun is setting fire to his skin and Merlin just wants to scream at something, break something, and Arthur just so happens to be right there.

"Merlin, I know what it's like to lose your parents, I know this is difficult for you -"

"Oh, do you, now?" The perfect opportunity, Merlin thinks, and he finally sits up to face Arthur with red eyes and dry cheeks and fire in his veins. "Because your father was nothing like my mother, and you never even knew your mother, so please, do tell me how you 'understand my pain.' You know _nothing_."

He supposes there should be some sense of satisfaction in the visible reeling on Arthur's face as though someone's landed a foul blow. It should be gratifying to see the King's eyes flip through anger and hurt and guilt and grief as though he can't quite decide what he should be feeling. It should make him happy, then, when Arthur swallows hard and lowers his head.

"Right. Of course."

But Merlin feels nothing as he watches Arthur leave with a polite nod to Gaius. He feels nothing as he notes his frame shaking all the way to the hallway and out of sight.

He feels nothing, and he supposes that should be oddly fitting just as the world goes dark and leaves nothing for him to feel.

* * *

The next day, Merlin ignores Gaius' Eyebrow and takes Arthur up on his offer to saddle up for Ealdor. He tells no one but the physician and the confused stablehand that likely only believes him on account of being the King's manservant. It's near enough to make Merlin reconsider walking the distance to his hometown, but decides against it out of spite for Arthur's misguided sense of kindness. As he's adjusting the saddle and strapping on what few provisions he dared take off of Cook's wary hands, Guinevere walks up beside him with a worn and sorrowful look in her eyes. He finds that he can't quite meet her gaze.

"Not now, Gwen."

"I know," she says quickly, always worried she's offended, and Merlin can't begrudge her sweetness no matter how much he might like to. "I'm sorry, it's just - well, you know how things are around here. People talk, and," she fidgets with something in her hands that finally draws Merlin's attention, "I just - I wanted to give this to you, before you set out."

He reaches for it without looking at her, recognising the faded colour and the neat stitchwork of the cloth. One of his old scarves, one his Mum had knit for him. It was torn in battle, and he'd asked Gwen to try and fix it, knowing full well there was no salvaging the ruined material. Yet as he thumbs through it and worries it in his hands, the tears seem to have vanished under Gwen's careful handiwork. It's still old and not fit for wear, but whole and _his_ , and Merlin has to swallow back whatever silly emotions bubble up in its wake.

"I'm sorry it took so long. I didn't think I could fix it and, other things kept coming up, you know. But - I spent all night on it, so hopefully it's not too terrible."

"No," Merlin breathes, seemingly unable to tear his watering eyes from it, "No, it's brilliant. Thank you, Gwen."

She sighs something like relief and he manages to look up with a weak smile of sorts that only seems to bring her closer to tears. He lets her wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close and tight, like something precious she doesn't want to let go of, and it's too much all at once. He very nearly clings back, burying his face in her shoulder.

"Oh, Merlin," she chokes, sniffling when she pulls away to kiss him on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, all right?"

He smiles again, which is no answer at all, and folds the scarf away in one of his packs to return the kiss. "Thank you."

Merlin doesn't look back as he rides away, but he can feel the eyes on the back of his head that he doesn't realise belong to Arthur.

* * *

During his week in Ealdor, Merlin manages to sort out the few belongings in his former home, till out the yard, and generally loaf around being useless. The villagers came to pay their respects at first, but the visits dwindled to nil when they noticed his less-than-pleasant receipt of them. At the end of the week, he lays on the floor staring at his sloped ceiling and wonders what the Hell he expected to find here. It certainly can't be solace in the few remaining traces of his mother's presence in this world now neatly packed into one of his bags. It clearly isn't comfort, as he can't even bring himself to touch her miserable bed, the only one they could ever afford. Will isn't even here to console him or call him an idiot and shove him into the river.

There's nothing here for him. And it hurts more than he'd thought possible.

Somewhere in that time spent idling about his house and sitting beneath the same trees he'd fallen out of as a child, Merlin manages to sort through some of the cluttered emotions swirling about his mind. The guilt of not being at her side is (mostly) assuaged by the knowledge that she went peacefully in her sleep from age and hard labour. It's a better ending than most find out here on the edges of the borders where death is near as hard to suffer as life. Nothing can help the grief, but he supposes that's simply the nature of loss - like an old battle wound that'll scar and fade with time so ' _wear it proudly, Merlin, it may well be the only proof you are actually a man._ ' The anger subsides into exhaustion as though it is just too much effort to remain mad, which leaves behind the bitter taste of the venom he'd spat Arthur's way before leaving.

A sinking feeling takes its place, dread and shame filling the hole he dug for himself, and it's his stubborn unwillingness to drown in it that finally urges him back to Camelot, unsure of what he might find there either but with nowhere else to go. The journey is more difficult in than out, though whether it's for the lack of fitting provisions or his own hesitance, Merlin doesn't care to determine. The fear nagging at him as he rides through the city walls turns to passive-aggressive shoving when he is received by a shirtless Gwaine sitting on Gaius' patient cot.

"Ah, Merlin! Thank the gods. Perhaps _you_ can -" He's cut short by a holler when Gaius pops his arm back into his shoulder, and he jumps to his feet to stretch it around. "Nothing like a good mangling to get you up in the morning."

"What happened?" Merlin asks warily as he sets his things down on the workbench to draw closer and observe the harsh beginnings of bruises along Gwaine's chest, along with the yellow remnants of the ones there beforehand. "Finally get that rough tumble you were looking for?"

"Oh, if only. Her Majesty has far too much chest hair for my liking." The mention of Arthur stills Merlin entirely, leaving time for the knight to grip his shoulders. "Talk to him, my friend. You may be the only one that can stop our good King from killing his own men before Mercia can get to us."

Merlin's brows furrow in confusion, but before he can ask, Gwaine claps a hand rudely to his cheek. "A good kiss or two ought to sort him out, eh?"

He gives Gwaine's tender shoulder a shove and the knight yelps, looking to Gaius with what might've been a pout if he weren't too busy grinning, "He's always so rough with me. I think I'm in love!"

"Get out of here, Gwaine. I'm sure you have some duties to neglect," Merlin snarks, earning a hearty shove and a hand mussing his hair.

"Glad to see you too, darling. Good luck with the King!"

Once the unruly knight has left, Gaius turns to him with a disgruntled sort of amusement, "You can't know how I've missed you, Merlin," which makes him laugh lightly as his father-figure pulls him into a warm hug.

"I've missed you too, Gaius. What was that all about?" Merlin asks, jerking his thumb towards the still-open door Gwaine left through. The physician gets his characteristic exasperated Look before starting about storing his salves away safely.

"It seems as though I can't go a day without one or three of the Knights in here for various injuries from their training," he informs Merlin with a groan, then sits on the bench and motions for Merlin to join him. "I'm told Arthur has been working them harder than ever these past two weeks, and the training grounds are not alone in suffering his heightened command. The Court has been hard at work as well, and while it's all good work, it's far too much at one time. I fear Arthur may be running himself into the ground."

"But why? What's gotten him so worked up?" Not even a day back in Camelot and Merlin gets the Eyebrow in full. His whole body sags as that same fear gets an 'I told you so!' suckerpunch to his gut. "No."

"I'm afraid so, Merlin. No one has quite so profound an effect on our King as you do."

Merlin groans, dropping his head into his hands. His blind cruelty was going to be the downfall of the kingdom. "But I was only gone two weeks!" He looks up to find the other Eyebrow had joined the first, and it's enough to startle him to his feet. "Right. I'll just head on over there, then. That's - yeah."

Only it's hardly so simple when every house hand he comes across on the way to the King's chambers skitters away hurriedly as though fearful their steps cause a hurricane. One girl - Lisa - actually bursts into sobs. Merlin's very near to calling it quits and returning to wallowing in his own misery but finds himself at Arthur's doors without realising it, and the guards are already eyeing him as is. It'd be strange to come all this way only to leave without even knocking - not as though everyone in the castle doesn't already thing him strange, and not as though he ever knocks.

Arthur is, predictably, at his desk when Merlin barges in unannounced, and he hardly even looks up to note his intruder. "Put it over there," he intones with a lazy wave of his hand, and Merlin follows the gesture to where a plate of food already rests untouched.

"Sorry, I didn't bring any gifts."

That gets his attention, and Merlin almost flinches when Arthur looks up at him with ugly dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. The usual golden hue of his skin seems to have lost its shine, even as his face lightens somewhat upon seeing him. "Merlin. Welcome back."

"Thank you," Merlin says awkwardly as Arthur looks at him like he's not entirely certain what he's in his chambers for, not that Merlin is anymore sure. "Um. I've heard you've been more of a prat than usual with the Knights."

The King's face darkens, and Merlin immediately regrets his choice of words, "Is that so." He goes back to scratching away at whatever documents he's tending to and speaks with vague disinterest, "And to whom do I have to thank for sending along this information?"

"No one," Merlin responds too quickly, shaking his head, "No one in specific, at least. Just ... heard it through the grapevine, you know. Vines. They grow - everywhere." He gestures wildly with his hands, and Arthur peers up just in time to catch it with a quirk of his lips.

"Right." He signs off on one sheet and sets it aside to seal it with his crest later, then immediately starts work on the next. "Well, my men's petticoats aside, I'm glad to see you've safely returned. There's no need for you to return to your duties right away if you don't want -"

"I do," Merlin interrupts, again, too fast to respond, and Arthur startles at the suddenness of it. When their eyes meet, a flicker of something pained crosses the King's features and Merlin feels his knees grow weak. He takes a tentative step forward, "Arthur -"

He holds up his hand to stop Merlin midsentence, and bows his head back to his desk. Of all the times Arthur has tried and failed to get Merlin to shut up, this is one of the very few that have succeeded, and it does far more than stop him from speaking. It halts his very breath, gives pause to the beating of his heart, and it's only then that Merlin realises Arthur is grieving too.

"Go home, Merlin. I'll call upon you when I've need of you."

"But -"

" _Now_ , Merlin."

Rage boils up from someplace inexplicable, the very same that brought him to lash out in the first place, only this time it lacks the very important element of justification. Of _feeling_ justification, where he had none, where there is none. Merlin is angry without cause, and Arthur is just angry. The space between them feels incendiary, and when Merlin opens his mouth to protest again, Arthur sets the world on fire.

"Get _out_!"

* * *

Six days later, Arthur collapses in the middle of a Council session. It takes the entire Court by surprise and panic erupts, sending the castle into a frenzy as they try to tend to the weakened King. Only Gaius, Merlin, and the Knights of the Round saw it coming, and it's they who take to action in Arthur's absence. Leon and Gwaine see to the knights and their training, as well as conducting guard duties and patrols. Guinevere and Elyan reign in the house hands and establish some basic sense of order in their mindless fright. Gaius bustles about fixing remedies and calming the councilors of the King's "imminent demise" while Percival stands constant guard to fend off any that might take advantage of 'the kingdom at its weakest.' 

Merlin waits.

For two and a half days, Merlin waits. As countless people come in and out of the King's chambers, Merlin stays rooted to his seat at Arthur's bedside and does not move for anything. Arthur sleeps, fever sweating across his brow and giving voice to senseless mumbling and voiceless cries as Merlin wipes away at his face with a soft rag, spoons water and medicine down his throat, and waits, and waits, and waits.

Two and a half days, the King lays helpless, but midday of the third, he finally opens his eyes. Fatigue ridden and just past heat-sickness, Arthur cannot summon strength enough to move, but Merlin is there, as he has been.

"You're awake," he breathes relief. Arthur turns to face him, face twisted in confusion.

"Merlin," he croaks, and the servant helps him to drink down a good measure of water. Once the cool liquid settles in his stomach, Arthur pulls himself to sitting with a wince. "What happened?"

"Well ... You sort of - fainted like a dainty flower. Women wept, children screamed, it was really very pathetic."

"Oh, gods. Kill me now." Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, "Right, well. Holiday's over."

Merlin's chair nearly falls over from how quickly he stands to stop Arthur from getting out of bed. He pushes him back down, none too gently and with a frown etched deep on his face.

"It wasn't - _fuck_ , it wasn't a _holiday_ , Arthur. You slept two days with fever. You can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing _what_ , running the damn kingdom?"

"Running it at a sprint! When you've still got leagues to go!" Arthur looks away from him, jaw tensed, and Merlin huffs with frustration before righting his chair and sitting with his elbows propped on the mattress. "We know you've been letting your meals go to rot, Arthur, and it's not hard to tell you haven't slept either. What's gotten into you?"

The force of the glare Arthur affixes Merlin is enough to send him back in his seat, blood gone cold in the face of tired, worn and angry shadows under Arthur's eyes. "Nothing's gotten into me, _Merlin_ , and even if it had, it wouldn't be any of your damned business."

Black clouds cross over Merlin's vision, anger and guilt warring like thunder and leaving only crushing despair. "I'm sorry," Merlin whispers. Arthur snorts and looks away again, and somehow that hurts more than his active dismissal of him. "I shouldn't have said all that to you, Arthur, I was just. I was distraught and lashing out and it wasn't fair to you -"

"No," he interrupts, hands fisting in the sheets and staring down with a look so vile, Merlin halfway wonders if he might be ill. "No, you were right. I didn't know my mother, and my father scarcely made it known he cared for me at all until his dying breath. I really don't know anything at all."

"Arthur," Merlin tries miserably, those same clouds threatening to open up and he has to try, fight with every ounce of willpower to remain afloat in threat of it.

But Arthur ignores him and laughs instead. Dark and broken, a single harsh laugh that thuds heavily in Merlin's chest. "I tried, though. To understand, even just a little bit, what a parent's love might feel like. Do you recall the tournament held on my name day two years past? I wore a token outside my armour and no one could fathom what Lady had given me it."

"I remember that. The Knights nearly went mad with it, and Gwaine tried starting a betting pool," Merlin recounts quietly, and Arthur finally looks up at him with a broken smile that darkens the sky just that much more.

"It was your mother's. She'd - I can't imagine what it must've cost her, but she'd sewn my crest into a cloth not entirely unlike those ridiculous scarves of yours and sent it along days beforehand so it'd arrive on time for the celebrations."

Merlin brings a hand to his mouth and begs and pleads with himself not to cry, but then Arthur does and he laughs and it _hurts_.

"It was the first time I'd ever felt well and truly loved by someone, and she wasn't even my mother. I can't even grieve for her, because what King mourns the loss of a single peasant that wasn't even one of his citizens?" Arthur stops to bore the heels of his hands into his eyes, but the streaks down his cheeks are painfully visible. "I know _nothing_ , Merlin, but how to swing a sword and sign my name and wear a crown. It's _all_ I know, all I will _ever_ know."

Logically, Merlin knows he came here to console Arthur, to help him not back to his feet but off of his toes, and logically, he knows this is the breakthrough moment he's been waiting for. Logically, he should be imparting words of (admittedly half-assed) wisdom and being called a girl and getting punched in the arm by way of thanks. 

He knows this, but logic be damned. Merlin drops his face to his hands and cries.

He cries, perhaps harder than at any time beforehand in the weeks since his mother's death. There is no wailing or cursing, the way there had been at times in Ealdor, but rather a deep, impossible ache as a storm rages in his chest. He cries, and he doesn't care that the King is sitting bedridden and angry with him, bearing witness to Merlin at his lowest of lows - and highest of highs. 

A four year old Merlin once paraded down the single street that comprises his home town, boldly proclaiming his mother to be the greatest across the Five Kingdoms. A seven year old Merlin, confused and scared and hurt by a power he didn't understand any more than he could control it, clung to his mother's neck and wept that _she_ was the blessing, the miracle, the gift she always assured him to be. A ten year old Merlin would get jealous when the other village children came to listen to her read stories, and a twelve year old Merlin would boast of his mother's brilliance when he read the same stories to the next generation. His teen years would show him the generosity and kindness she gave the others to earn their warm affection and respect. His departure to Camelot would prove to be the most difficult thing he's ever done in wake of her absence.

But for as long as he's known Hunith was a goddess of her own calibre, a beacon of light that shone like her own Sun, it's the mark she left on Arthur that swells his love for his mother to unbearable proportions, and he _cries_. He weeps because the village can't for all they need to struggle to survive; because Arthur can't for his position in the Court; because the skies won't open up for one woman, insignificant in the grand scheme of things but all the world in their tiny little corner of existence.

When a hand threads through his hair, Merlin lets out a choked sob of 'I'm so sorry' and Arthur hushes him with a chant of 'it's okay,' 'breathe, just breathe,' and 'I'm here.' When he's reigned in the majority of his hysterics, Arthur's hand tugs on his earlobe and he shifts over in the bed, motioning for him to 'come here,' and Merlin only hesitates a second before sliding in next to him.

"Just this once, so not a word from you or I'll kick you onto the stones."

"Like you have the strength for it right now, my Lady."

"All right, away with you."

"Oh, gods, you _would_ put me on the side covered in your fever sweat!"

More aimless banter and half-hearted wrestling finds them tangled together on the clean side of the bed with Arthur stripped of his soiled shirt and Merlin draped across him, head curled to the nook of his shoulder. They lay there silently, Arthur petting through Merlin's hair comfortingly, for what feels like an eternity. When Arthur speaks softly and says 'I miss her,' Merlin hides his face against Arthur's neck and says 'me too.' They both sleep for the first time in nearly a month.

* * *

Later, after feeding Arthur and bathing him and changing the bedsheets, they curl up together again (' _I thought you said it was just that once?' 'Shut up, Merlin,_ ') and Merlin calls upon the courage to say what he neglected to earlier.

"I was wrong, you know. We both were." Arthur stays silent, but cranes his neck to watch Merlin speak as he splays his hand curiously across the King's chest. "You know a great deal of things."

"Do I, now," Arthur says blandly, a subtle tension making itself known as his hand curls at Merlin's spine.

"You do. You know how to be a prat." Arthur snorts, and Merlin continues. "You know how to drive everyone mad. You know how to be exceptionally condescending and _rude_ -"

"If this is your method of cheering me up, I may actually cry."

"- as well as exceptionally kind-hearted and considerate. You know how to inspire courage and strength. You know how to dole out justice and teach fairness. You know how to guide when all else seems lost, how to lead where there seems no path. 

"You know selflessness and righteousness; duty and honour; caring and compassion. You know love and ... you know how to unite others to love you."

Merlin stills, and Arthur inhales deeply to keep himself composed. Merlin smiles.

"My mother loved you - not for your strength or policies but because you are a good man and a great leader. She was not of your kingdom, but you were her King, and she loved you dearly. It was annoying, really, I think she liked you more than me." Arthur finally laughs, however quietly, and Merlin looks up to him with a new light in his eyes. "You are more than just a sword or a name or a crown. You are comfort and safety for your people, guidance and hope for your men. You are ... _everything_ , Arthur."

Emotion creeps back into Merlin's voice and he can no longer meet Arthur's gaze. His eyes close, heat pooling behind them, and he rests his head against the steady beat of Arthur's heart.

"You're all I have left."

Merlin thinks of Gaius and Gwen, the Knights and their brotherhood; he thinks of Will and Lancelot, his mother - always of his mother; he thinks of the King. The man beside him who was little more than a boy when they met near a decade ago. There are people Merlin loves and cares for and would give anything for - and then there is Arthur. Arthur, whom he loves on so profound a level, so deep into his core and out into every fibre of his being, that he would be more than lost without. He would simply cease to be.

The odd thing about death is that, through many of the expected reactions, sometimes entirely unforeseen things make themselves known too strongly to be ignored. Or perhaps he's just too weak to deny. But Merlin knows it true, in the aching of his fingertips as they ball against Arthur's chest and he wills the tears not to come. They do anyway; as does Arthur's hand once again threading through his hair. It's the same comforting gesture his mum would make whenever he was upset, and it's beautiful and wonderful and too much.

"You have me," Arthur whispers gently as Merlin shakes in his arms. "You have me, Merlin. I'm right here."

And that is everything, until it is nothing, and Merlin cries.


End file.
